He smirks, considering my reasoning, and the breath that escapes his lips tells me he agrees.
Then he says, “Parachute pants.”
“Classic.”
“Skorts?” he asks with hesitancy.
“Convenient.”
“Platform shoes.”
I lean over my armrest and point a finger at him. “Don’t you dare call those ugly.”
His lips part, and he swipes his tongue over his bottom lip before smiling. “Okay, Scary Spice.”
“No, I’m Sporty Spice to the end.”
He glances at my jeans, sweater, and black boots.
“Fair,” he says finally. “Don’t judge a book by its cover, right?” He wrings his fingers over the novel in his lap. My eyes follow.
“Well, maybe that one.”
“Really? You’ve read it.”
I shrug, knowing how much my mother’s work changed with each publication. “I’ve read enough of her work to know she’s capped out.”
He twists his lips. “She’s in a rut.”
I playfully roll my eyes. “Then she should take a break. I swear, her publisher is insane for making her pump out books twice a year sinceInto the Snowcame out six years ago, and her agent is an asshole for not protecting her craft.” He’s also an asshole for cheating on me, but that’s neither here nor there.
“That’s aggressive.”
I don’t let up. “Her first book took ten years to write. It breathed and moved and morphed into the masterpiece it is after she spent years struggling and overcoming tragedy in her personal life. That’s why it did so well. But because she got some fancy contract and easily sold her film rights, she continues to put out half-assed, redundant work.” I nod at the book. “That’s whyOut of the Woodsfeels like a dystopian version ofInto the Snowand why she gave all the characters names like Honey and Cedar, so we don’t think they’re the same blueprint as Hannah and Clint.” I sit back with a huff.
“Well, you know what they say,” he ventures.
“What?”
“Your biggest hater is usually your biggest fan.”
I laugh at this because he’s right. I just word-vomited my irritation with my mother and her agent, who just so happens to be my ex.
Instead of divulging this, I say, “I used to work in publishing.”
“Ah.” The man beside me holds a finger to his lips, a small, amusing smile growing on his features. “You’re wrong.”
“I’m not, though.”
He unleashes his full smile, sending those weird ripples in my stomach again. “You are. You aren’t Sporty Spice. You’re Literary Spice.”
I laugh. Long, breathy, and loud enough to turn the heads of passengers across the aisle. I press my lips into a smile and look back at him.
Rough stubble across his jawline. Perfect, white teeth. Insanely disarming smile. He’s dressed well, too, but much more casual than the typical man in first class. He’s wearing clean, black and white Air Force 1s. I wonder if he’s an athlete, but I don’t follow professional sports closely enough to know.
“Pink blobfish,” he says.
I draw back, eyes narrowed. “What?”
